


it amounts to an admission of defeat

by SubbyP



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Food mention, M/M, Possibly Unrequited Love, Unrequited Love, Vignette, alcohol mention, every fandom needs a pacific rim fusion, not necessarily finished-- I'll write more if I get inspired to, sex mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 11:24:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18467965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SubbyP/pseuds/SubbyP
Summary: An evening in the undistinguished life of Illya Kuryakin, copilot of the Say Uncle.





	it amounts to an admission of defeat

      Illya has never been the sort of man who likes attention. He makes that perfectly clear every time Napoleon tries to get him to sign autographs or drag him on one of his godforsaken talk shows.  _It’s for the kids, Illya. Kids love Jaeger pilots, Illya._ And other such bullshit. As far as Illya is concerned, in the unlikely event there actually  _are_  children lining up around the block to get a piece of an eccentric and withdrawn submariner-turned-secondary-pilot, they can send him an email or petition the PPDC for a Shatterdome tour. Illya doesn’t even like it when his  _name_  is in the news, let alone his face or his opinions. 

      Napoleon, of course, has no such reservations. He has a  _public image._  He’s done tours.  _He has a Twitter account_. God, sometimes Illya could honestly strangle him. Especially at times like these.

      “–isn’t that right, Illya?”

      Illya has not been listening. Instead, he has been mentally calculating the exact time to the minute before he can get out of this ballroom, out of his dress uniform, and into a nice physics journal. Napoleon can use his “cute” little copilot as a flirting prop if he wants, but Illya feels no obligation to go along with it.

      Napoleon elbows him. “Hey. Hey, partner. Earth to Kuryakin.”

      “What.” Illya scans the crowd for a waiter. He’ll be damned if he endures the next two hours and forty-eight minutes sober.

      “Katherine here–” Napoleon gestures rakishly to a beautiful woman whose name Illya has not bothered to learn. “–was asking about what it feels like to pilot.”

      “Oh.” What could Illya possibly say about that?

      Katherine–who, Illya reminds himself, is probably perfectly nice and deserves neither Illya’s scorn nor the superficial and irritating attentions of Napoleon in Public Appearance Mode–smiles. “Captain Solo was saying–”

     “Napoleon, please, my dear.” 

     She giggles.  _How_  does Napoleon’s Prince Charming act keep working on intelligent, sensible women? At least Illya has the disadvantage of knowing the  _real_  Napoleon, with his courage and wry humor and quick, sharp intelligence. At least he has felt Napoleon’s complex and secluded heart. There was no way Illya could avoid loving him after that. The ladies of the moment only get to know the hair gel and tales of derring-do and generationally outdated manners, but they fall all over themselves just the same.

     Illya is probably being unfair. Napoleon isn’t suckering these women; they’re just playing along as part of the dance outgoing people do because it’s more palatable to them then just coming out and saying “I respect you and find you attractive; would you like to sleep together tonight?” and “Why yes, I would, but first allow me to take a picture with you for your Instagram. No, I insist. Please place me between your breakfast and the amazing sunset you saw at Cabo Verde that one time.”

     _Good_   _God_ , Illya realizes,  _I’m a crotchety old tightass at the ripe old age of 35._

 _“_ Piloting?” he says, wrenching himself out of nightmares of Werther’s Originals and talking in a loud voice to complete strangers in the athletic club steam room. “Piloting is…” 

    Illya has been asked that question many times before. He usually says “Difficult and exhausting.” If he is actually being voluntarily friendly with someone, he adds “…like any other close relationship.” This is the truth. He and Napoleon are as compatible as the next successful team, but they still hit their snags. Drifting can strip away deception–both intentional and unintentional–and help you see things from your partner’s point of view, but it’s not a panacea. You take  _yourself_  into the drift, rough edges and all. 

    Your first and hardest job is to accept all parts of your partner. Not to roll over passively, not to accept mistreatment–an unbalanced Drift is just as harmful as an incompatible one–but simply to recognize their presence. Even the parts you don’t like. 

    Even the parts that hurt you.

    “The helmets get very sweaty,” Illya says.

—

    The party is still going strong when Illya makes a tactical retreat to the hotel. Marshal Waverly is probably going to have his ass for it, but what the hell. If Illya can’t leverage being half of the most successful crew in North America in order to get out of uncomfortable social occasions, then he might as well roll over and let the kaiju stampede all over Seattle right now.

   Illya sighs and unlaces his dress shoes. The attempt at levity feels hollow even inside of his own head. 

   Like most piloting teams, the crew of the _Say Uncle_  room together when they travel. Illya is too much the military man to do anything messy to his dress uniform, but he still feels the urge to throw his dirty clothes all over Napoleon’s pristine double bed. Why not? It’s not as if Napoleon will be using it tonight.

   Napoleon likes to joke about Drift remnants. “I’m glad I can get impressions off you, I.K.” he says. “Otherwise, I might never be able to tell what’s on your mind.” Despite the jokes, Illya can tell the sentiment is sincere. Napoleon acts shallow in public, but he’s the kind of man who likes to be tuned in to his true friends, and his true friends are surprisingly few. Illya is honored– _happy_ –to be among them, but that doesn’t make Napoleon’s rare moments of selective obliviousness easier to bear.

    Somehow, after all these years, Napoleon has never turned it around, never truly internalized that Illya can receive as well as transmit. Illya is certain he hasn’t. If he had, he would be mortified to know that whenever he and his Katherine of the day consummate their dance, Illya can feel it like a sour rawness in his core. 

   It’s a hell of a thing to have an unrequited love. It’s even worse when you can’t help but eavesdrop on his sex life.

—

    (Illya ends up stealing Napoleon’s pillow mint instead.) 


End file.
